


Once

by taakovitz (orphan_account)



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Gen, Tragedy, Valentine (Romeo and Juliet) - Freeform, he's mentioned anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/taakovitz
Summary: Young Montagues and Capulets, from households both alike in dignity, couldn't care less about an age-old feud between their age-old fathers. They cared of things that were trivial and childish and meant nothing in the long run; what game they would play that day, who would win bragging rights, who could run the fastest, or who could yell the loudest without being scolded for it by the townspeople lingering in the streets.





	Once

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic literal years, so hopefully, it's at least coherent, even though it's wildly short. thank you for reading!

Young Montagues and Capulets, from households both alike in dignity, couldn't care less about an age-old feud between their age-old fathers. And neither could the prince's nephews, brave Mercutio and gentle Valentine. They cared of things that were trivial and childish and meant nothing in the long run; what game they would play that day, who would win bragging rights, who could run the fastest, or who could yell the loudest without being scolded for it by the townspeople lingering in the streets. 

Benvolio, Romeo, and Mercutio were attached at the hip from the beginning. Romeo and Benvolio were always close as cousins, and Mercutio aligned perfectly with them from the moment they met. Their days were full of grins, lying under trees as the summer sun set, and bouts of giggles as they played until the evenings when someone would need to come fetch Mercutio (he never wanted to go home; so he never went on his own, always needing to be dragged away).

And then, they could manage to play with Tybalt, if they so chose. And if Tybalt felt like he wanted to deal with them. Little Tybalt had like a lion's mane, fitting for the King of Cats, his eyes grating and cold even so young. He was easy to tease and easy to anger, but he didn't stop coming to play permanently even if he did become angry with them. They would play games together, even though, on occasion, Tybalt would cry if he didn't get his way and would need to be shushed and brought home by a Capulet woman. When they reached the elder years of childhood, they would fake duel with false wooden swords, all in fun. Mercutio was never involved in a Capulet or Montague fight-- for all he knew, sparring was a sport and only that. His steps were graceful, his moves quick, his wrist flicks nearly perfected after some training with his cousin. Romeo was more clumsy; he received light-hearted teasing from his best friend and gentle encouragement from Benvolio, who was more skilled, but less skilled all at once. Tybalt was good, but not like Mercutio, and he would become frustrated the with the quick-witted and quick-footed Montague hanger-on. But they would usually always get along afterward, even if they had a petty argument of sorts when Tybalt lost.

It was a game once.

When Mercutio's breath shook, it was no longer a game. When hot crimson blood stained his violet vest, it was no longer a game, and Mercutio's dulling brown eyes showed no mischevious, taunting, playful sparkle as they did when they played as children.

The wretched scream that left Romeo's lips was real, and so were the iron swords that they fought with on the hot midsummer streets of Verona. 

When Romeo held Mercutio in his arms, his fingers shaking against his soft freckled cheek beginning to lose color, it wasn't an act.

Mercutio's eyes were filled with hatred, and desperation, and love, and all of the emotions he could muster in his final moments could not be imagined or played in a child's game.

When Mercutio's body shook with his final breath, he most certainly was not playing dead, waiting for the other boys to shake him awake.

But how they wished he was.


End file.
